


in my darkness i remember

by anthxnyjcrxwley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I'm very soft about these two, Love, M/M, Slow Dancing, South Downs Cottage, Train of Thought, a lot of love, after the NotSoEndOfTheWorld, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthxnyjcrxwley/pseuds/anthxnyjcrxwley
Summary: “You’re in a bit of a mood tonight.” The angel observes, hand already settling on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley’s arm wraps around his lower back and he shuffles them from between the coffee table and the couch, already starting up a slow sway.Crowley thinks of the plants outside.The honeysuckle had been particularly proud of itself today, especially when Crowley had plucked a blossom and twisted it around his fingers, rolling it slowly.“Maybe a bit.” Crowley allows, and presses his nose to Aziraphale’s temple. He smells faintly of ozone and a bit of a sea breeze.----A tender night in South Downs.





	in my darkness i remember

**Author's Note:**

> Title from River by Leon Bridges - highly recommend listening to it if you want to imagine some soft and sweet slow dancing.
> 
> Sorry for any typos! I don't have a beta reader - I'll have to run through this a couple of times later, but I wanted to get it posted so here it is!

There is something to be said of the quiet-cool-calm-dark that night brings. 

It folds around the cottage so slowly at first, the sun dipping behind the horizon, before rushing all in at once and exploding stars in the sky. 

It’s in that quiet-cool-calm-dark that Crowley often finds his thoughts wandering - even when Aziraphale climbs into bed beside him, tucks him in close with an arm around his waist. 

Because the common misconception is that demons don’t remember their lives _before_. At least, Angels-Made-Demons. (There are other demons, of course. Demons are the rare sort of creature that happen when a soul gets shredded up and reformed into a twisted version of what they originally were. They never come from nothing.) 

Crowley remembers, though. He remembers the utterly encompassing feeling of _Her_ love, the spilling over because he simply can’t hold it all. He _remembers_ that. 

He _also_ remembers how it felt to be cut off from it. The sudden emptiness - the way an ocean simply just… disappeared. The utterly raw feeling of being _alone_ for the first time in all of his existence. (He had, up until then, been able to feel not only Her love but also _all_ other angels. Falling takes that sense away, you see. A side-effect that maybe She hadn’t fully taken into account at the time: To completely isolate a social creature in its own thoughts is one of the easiest ways to drive it mad.) 

Crowley had never been one for worship, even back when his wings were a pure and blinding white. He’d been too busy asking questions, too busy seeking answers-- 

Crowley had always wanted answers. 

He’d waited six thousand years for one - whispered quietly, in a quiet-cool-calm-dark not too unlike tonight’s. 

“Do you love me?” His own question whispered into the space between him and an angel - blue eyes pinning him to the bed like an insect specimen mounted in a display box. Frozen in time, vulnerable.

“Yes.” It was whispered just as quietly - if not even smaller - a soft hand reaching out to pluck sunglasses off his soot covered face. He’d needed a shower, but it had been impossible to drag himself there - and even more impossible to expend energy on any more miracles. He’d stopped the sands of time and that had been enough. 

Quiet-cool-calm-dark always made it easier to flay himself open, to give Aziraphale his softest most vulnerable parts. 

Crowley’s hands still have dirt on them from the garden when he steps inside. He could miracle it away, but there’s something incredibly satisfying about washing them clean, watching the dirt swirl down the drain and away. 

It’s not quite dark yet, but quiet-cool-calm has descended on the world. 

In the other room, he can hear the record player crackling out a soft piano - he washes his hands in the kitchen sink. Aziraphale might fuss later, but Crowley doesn’t particularly feel like walking past him to the bathroom. 

So he washes his hands in the kitchen sink and dries them on the sunflower print hand towel that’s taken up residence on the counter. Thinks that maybe he ought to move it elsewhere, but leaves it in its spot. As he usually does. 

He takes a moment to pause in the doorway to the living room. 

Aziraphale has a book in his lap. As he usually does. 

The lamplight makes his dandelion fluff hair a warm yellow and Crowley feels all his sharp edges go soft. He leans up against the doorjamb to just watch for a few moments. 

To watch the angel turn a page. Tip his head. Crowley knows that Aziraphale knows he’s there, but he also knows that in some small way the angel is preening under the attention. 

Crowley pushes off the doorjamb to wander further into the living room, weaving around to stand beside Aziraphale where he sits on the couch. He waits patiently for blue eyes to finally lift from the book, a soft huff escaping the angel. 

Crowley smiles at him. 

The last of the golden light outside has succumbed and that blanket of quiet-cool-calm-dark settles over the cottage firmly. Tucks them in. 

They stare at each other for a moment - simply maybe because they _can_ now - and then Crowley leans in, presses a gentle kiss first to Aziraphale’s forehead. It’s a distraction tactic - one that Aziraphale can ignore if he wants, but he seems in good spirits tonight. He lets Crowley close his book and take it from his hands. It ends up on the coffee table as Crowley presses a second kiss to the angel’s lips. 

“C’mere.” It’s a soft mumble, taking one of the angel’s now empty hands in his own. 

The first time this had happened they’d both been absolutely sloshed and Crowley struggles to remember if there’d even been any music at all playing. Probably not. They’d been too clumsy for music to even help - Crowley had laughed when Aziraphale stepped on his toes. They ended up mostly swaying in place that night, Crowley leaning his head against those nearly white curls. 

Aziraphale pretends that it’s a terrible Effort to stand, but they both know very well just how much Aziraphale likes to touch - how much they both like to - now that they’re allowed. 

“You’re in a bit of a mood tonight.” The angel observes, hand already settling on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley’s arm wraps around his lower back and he shuffles them from between the coffee table and the couch, already starting up a slow sway. 

Crowley thinks of the plants outside. 

The honeysuckle had been particularly proud of itself today, especially when Crowley had plucked a blossom and twisted it around his fingers, rolling it slowly. 

“Maybe a bit.” Crowley allows, and presses his nose to Aziraphale’s temple. He smells faintly of ozone and a bit of a sea breeze. 

Stars are beginning to burst to life in the quiet-cool-calm-dark outside the window. He glimpses it when they spin enough he can face it. 

Slow circles around a living room that’s a wild mix of themselves - books and electronics and plants and coffee mugs, forgotten or abandoned to be dealt with later. They have, after all, all the time in the world now. 

Crowley’s thumb brushes back and forth over the angel’s hand - 

There are times when Crowley feels a ghost of Her love. 

Well, perhaps he shouldn’t call it a ghost, exactly. It’s not like Her love at all. It’s a similar feeling, but it’s _better_ than Her love. Because this love is secure. It’s not a love that’s conditional, not a love that Aziraphale would take from him. He can’t feel Aziraphale’s love - not really - but he knows it’s there and that is enough. More than enough. He could stay forever in the circle of Aziraphale’s arms if he asked. 

It’s not _Her_ love that overwhelms him now. It’s not _Her_ love that spills over, that makes him extend his hands to touch - to _show_ how much he feels. 

It’s his own feelings, rooted deep in his chest - it makes his ribcage feel too small, like it might crack open under the pressure. It _aches_ in the best way, heart beating heavy rhythms that reverberate in every one of his atoms. 

A litany. 

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you--_

“I would give you anything.” Crowley whispers, suddenly. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first - the angel merely squeezes his hand gently, hand slipping from Crowley’s shoulder to cup the side of his neck. It’s soft and warm and Crowley is helpless not to lean into it. 

Crowley presses a kiss to the angel’s hairline. 

“I know.” Aziraphale says at last, with a voice so soft and light that it was nearly swept away before it reached Crowley’s ears. “And I to you.” 

The angel’s thumb brushes the bolt of his jaw and Crowley lets out a soft sigh, shifting around to tip his head, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s. 

They stay intertwined like that for a bit, no longer swaying at all. 

So no, Crowley had never quite been one for worship - 

Not until these moments - moments where he’d bring a soft hand to his mouth, press a kiss to the back of it. Where he’d let go to brush imaginary stray curls from Aziraphale’s forehead, where he’d just _look_. 

Crowley had not knelt in worship since the Garden. 

That was a long time ago - under a different name, with different hopes, different dreams. That had also been on _two_ knees. 

Crowley offers a different kind of worship now - 

He slips away from Aziraphale’s hands, sinking down to one knee in front of the angel. 

In the quiet-cool-calm-dark outside, the honeysuckle shivers - not in fear, but excitement. 

After all, it was _its_ blossom that made the foundation of the ring. It had been a bright yellow, rolled between long fingers until it had become something altogether new - although it didn’t forget where it came from. It was a yellow gold - band not too thick or thin - with just the faintest engraving of leaves circling around it. 

Crowley slips the ring from his pocket where it had been hidden away. 

Marriage is a very _human_ thing. Lots of ceremony and official paperwork. Showy. A clear and present claim on someone else - reciprocated just as strongly. _That’s my person._ Usually with that nice sentiment - ‘til death do us part. 

For them, humans, it made sense to say _I’d like to spend the rest of my time with you_ because it was so short. Because it was so easy to lose a century. Crowley nearly slept through one once. 

Crowley didn’t know how long they had. But-- 

“Then marry me?” Crowley’s voice comes out smaller and softer than he’d originally planned - and much shorter. He’d had so much more he wanted to say - things about giving themselves to each other, about how he wanted to show Aziraphale he loved him every day forever, about how he’d stand beside him until the next end of the world-- 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes a few times, eyes a little glassy. For a moment, Crowley worries-- 

He’s overstepped somewhere, pushed too far maybe? 

The feeling doesn’t stay because the angel tugs him up onto his feet easily, pressing a kiss to his mouth and making Crowley hum in surprise. 

He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer this time. It arrives in whispers against his mouth again and again - “ _Yes_ , yes, of course--” 

Crowley feels like all the tension drains out of him at once. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been internally fretting. He leans into Aziraphale for support, both hands fumbling for the right finger, sliding the ring on shakily. 

Aziraphale is smiling against his jaw, head leaning against his own even as Crowley has to turn his to glance at the ring - to make sure he’d put it on right. 

That’s his ring. On Aziraphale’s finger. 

“Oh, my dear.” It’s so gentle that it makes Crowley blink a few times to chase the mistiness away. He isn’t going to _cry_. 

Those deceptively strong hands find a grip on his sides, a breathless laugh passing the angel’s lips as he lifts Crowley up, spinning them around once before he settles the demon back on his feet. 

Crowley was utterly dizzy with it all. 

“I love you.” He gasps, suddenly, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. Maybe he had. A bit. Aziraphale kisses him and Crowley leans into it without a thought, arms settling around the angel’s shoulders. 

“I love _you_.” Aziraphale responds in kind against his mouth, already backing them out of the living room, hands guiding on Crowley’s sides. 

Four nights later in the quiet-cool-calm-dark of their bedroom, Aziraphale will take Crowley’s hand in his. He will tell the demon some of the ways in which Crowley makes him happy - it would take a century or more to even reach the middle of the list, so he chooses only a few for now - and he will give Crowley a ring of his own. 

This ring will be silver with a darker grey band around the middle, one twinkling diamond - star, actually, though humans would never know - planted firmly in the center. 

Crowley will fret for a moment that his own was not enough and Aziraphale will press him down into the mattress, will chase the worry away with soft praise and light kisses. 

Crowley will let himself be _happy_ without fear or worry - he will _bask_ in it. 

Perhaps there is nothing to be _said_ of the quiet-cool-calm-dark that night brings - rather, it is meant to be shared without the barrier of language in gentle brushes of skin and the awe of loving and being loved in return.


End file.
